


clean out of air

by crownsandbirds



Series: nanowrimo 2018 [5]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Bathtubs, Beach Sex, Beaches, Daddy Issues, Depression, Developing Relationship, M/M, Nightmares, Pancakes, Sexual Content, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-27 21:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16710169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/pseuds/crownsandbirds
Summary: "Pariston catches himself staring at Ging for long moments. He's most beautiful like this, he figures. Free and quick on his feet and unattainable.It's also how he's cruelest."why things almost worked out between them, and why they didn't.





	clean out of air

The first time they met, they hated each other at first sight. 

That was an unpleasant surprise for Ging - going through life as he did, his brain sharp but his emotions foggy and dulled out, he usually felt little other than contempt or apathy towards people, with slight variations of bored amusement depending on the situation. It had been years since the last time he'd felt real, intense emotions when it came to human beings, and he was more than fine with that. 

The piercing hatred he felt towards Pariston was so strong he was taken aback. He frowned slightly and curled his hands into fists inside his pockets, and then immediately relaxed them. This was not a man you could let down your guard around. This was not a man you should allow to see your emotions.

The President, the responsible for introducing them to each other in the first place, was watching them with a funny little smile on his lips, which confused Ging for a moment. 

And then he  _ looked. _ He looked at Pariston beyond his pristine, perfectly-pressed suit, his pleasant grin, his combed hair, and found himself staring right inside his big, brown eyes. 

Pariston's eyes were a strange palette of empty and deep, affection-starved and cold, with the weight of someone who had been through hell and back and there again, and the careless amusement of a person who held so little regard for their own happiness it didn't matter one bit. Ging had never seen eyes quite like those before - except for when he looked in the mirror. 

_He wants_ _me,_ Ging noticed suddenly, and then, _I want him._

Sated and exhausted in a bed, bloody and wrecked in the sidewalk, sharp and cunning on the other side of the table in the meeting room. In any way possible, in all the ways possible. They wanted each other, and the realization of that fact, as certain and obvious as the water trailing down the window glass outside, felt like a suckerpunch. 

Ging extended his hand. "Ging Freecs."

Pariston took it. His handshake was strong, his bright robotic smile unwavering. "Pariston Hill. It's a pleasure."

Netero laughed out loud. It made Ging want to punch the satisfaction out of him.

 

-

 

It's a very rainy night, with thunders and lightning the only source of illumination in the room. It's four in the morning and Pariston is trailing the tips of his fingers up and down Ging's chest, head resting on his shoulder. 

“That was good," Ging says, and wraps his arm around Pariston's waist, an unconscious movement to regain control of the situation, since he forgot himself a few moments ago and moaned out Pariston's name while coming. 

Ging doesn't moan out names during sex. He can hardly be bothered to remember them most of the time. So he's paradoxically trying to do damage control in himself right now. 

Pariston doesn't mind. He will take affection in any way he can get. 

“I'm glad," he mumbles, and tries not to smile. Ging said before he detests Pariston's victorious smiles. Little does he know Pariston never feels like he wins anything when Ging is involved. "You're hard to please.”

“Well, I’m pleased.”

Lightning strikes outside the window. It always rains when Ging is in town, for some reason. Gentle, cold rain in the morning, full-out thunderstorms in the middle of the night, foggy grey skies throughout the day. He says he's going to spend eight months this time (to the surprise of absolutely everyone, who was unaware Ging was physically capable of remaining in the same place for more than two weeks) to plan out his next heavily complicated expedition and, together with Pariston, aid President Netero in setting up the Zodiacs. Pariston wonders if that means cold water is going to fall from the sky non-stop for the entirety of those eight months. 

“For now.”

Ging shrugs at that. “Yeah, well, stop thinking about things other than  _ now _ so much. It’s annoying.” 

Pariston wants to tell him it’s not that easy, not when he spent eighteen years of his life thinking of nothing other than the day he would finally be able to leave his despicable home and his disgusting father, dreaming of the morning he would get up and grab his things and leave to never return again. Pariston raised himself in complex thought processes about the future and a very stubborn, unbreakable carelessness for the present. 

Ging pokes his waist. “I wanna go to the beach.” 

“Okay,” Pariston agrees, relieved to change subjects. “When?” 

“At sunrise.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” Ging closes his eyes and relaxes back into the many pillows. “Go to sleep, Paris, you’ll be driving tomorrow.” 

He does. 

 

-

 

Ging is not that familiar with the concept of a home. Whale Island was his home until he turned twelve and jumped on a ship and left everything behind - he barely holds recollections from his childhood, just some knowledge about animals and plants he learned in his tiny explorations on the forest, bits and pieces of nature and the sea and Mito running to try and catch up with him. 

After that, he travelled around the world for years, and his most familiar sights were hotel rooms, both luxurious and shitty, most often than not with generic blankets and uncomfortable pillows and either too-hot or too-cold water in the shower. Bored receptionists and dull yellow lights and arriving at the reception hall in the middle of the night with that strange sensation that he’d arrived at a dimension where everything was just slightly out of place.

Sometimes, when he was lucky, he got hotel rooms with bathtubs in the bathroom, and he learned to covet those little moments where he could just lay back in the warm, still water, close his eyes and relax; and so, the bathtub has got to be one of the things he loves the most about Pariston’s house. 

It’s not a  _ home _ , far from it. Like everything about Pariston, it’s too pristine, too clean and well-arranged, all the colors set up in a perfect combination meant to be pleasing to the common person and that ends up making Ging feel uncomfortable in how inhumanly flawless it is. Still, it’s so much better than a generic, lonely hotel room; plus, Pariston makes some very nice pancakes. 

He might be spending the next months here. He wonders if that means something about their relationship.

_ Relationship _ . He muses over that word while trailing his fingers on the surface of the warm water of the bathtub. They ended up sleeping in and missing the sunrise, so they’ll only leave for the beach tomorrow and spend the entire weekend there. Pariston is making them pancakes in his flawless, perfect kitchen while Ging is drifting in and out of sleep and playing with the water and waiting for him to join in too.

Their sex is great, Ging ponders, while setting out to wash his hair with the vanilla shampoo on the small glass shelf above his head. The best he’s ever had by far, even if he’ll die before letting Pariston know about that. Their conversations are interesting - it’s nice to be able to talk to someone who doesn’t have to struggle to keep up with his mind. Even more, Pariston oscillates between looking at him like he hung all the stars in the sky and like he’s responsible for every crack in the fabric of the universe. His lover is sharp as a whip, quick and cunning and honestly fascinating, with such a clever brain it pisses him off sometimes.

If they were normal people, they would be dating by now. Ging would move in, they would share a bed and the electricity bill until one of them asked the other in marriage. Then they would get married, Netero would walk Pariston down the aisle and they would live sort-of-happily ever after. Maybe they would even have a kid one day. It would be nice. 

Ging leans back to wash the suds off his hair. He can smell the pancakes under the scent of vanilla. 

Pariston is depressed and probably psychotic. Sometimes, he talks to people that aren’t there, and Ging has yet to meet a person who has a more restless, terrified sleep. Pariston’s nightmares make him cry in good nights and scream for help in the worst ones. He’s mentally unstable and his mind is built upon layers of trauma Ging only knows glimpses of. 

And he himself is not much better off, to be honest. 

He doesn’t want to think about this anymore. “Paris!” he calls out.

“What?” 

“Come here!” 

A few moments later, Pariston knocks on the doorframe. “What do you want?” 

Ging makes grabby hands at him. “Come into the water with me.” 

Pariston laughs, amused. “I just finished making breakfast.” 

“Who cares? Come here.” 

Pariston does, because he will do anything Ging tells him to. Ging doesn’t know how that makes him feel. He just watches as Pariston steps out of his clothes and carefully gets into the water, maneuvering so they can both fit. 

“Kiss me,” Ging demands, and it takes a bit of adjusting but they set in a position that allows them to kiss like they always do, deep and filthy and biting, Pariston clutching forcefully at him as payback for Ging’s teeth sinking into his lips. 

They haven’t been able to keep their hands off each other ever since the first time they fucked at a bathroom stall in the Hunter Association building and that's a problem because Pariston is traumatized and Ging is apathetic and they shouldn’t be able to enjoy making out in a bathtub nearly as much as they do.

Ging wants to really stop thinking, so he takes Pariston's hand and slides it down until it's cupping the heat between his legs. He feels a smile against his skin, where Pariston’s lips are close to his neck, and it takes him a lot of willpower not to shiver. 

“Bossy,” Pariston whispers, delighted, and starts moving his fingers. 

Pariston's fingers are skilled, far more than they have any right to be, and he's observant and careful, pays attention to every single one of Ging’s reactions, as small as they are - when he spreads his legs just a bit wider, when his hold tightens around his shoulder. 

At one point, Ging lets out a sharp intake of breath, and Pariston kisses the corner of his lips. “You're so beautiful.” 

Ging closes his eyes and moves his head to the side. Pariston does  _ something  _ that makes him hiss and shiver despite himself and then says, “You’re the most gorgeous boy in the world.” 

Ging reaches and wraps a fist around his hair and stares right into his eyes. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Pariston isn't gentle; neither of them are, neither of them has the capacity for tenderness. He's careful, but his care is clinical and there's not much affection in the way he waits until Ging demands for him to start moving. He fucks deep and hard and rough, like he has no idea how to do it in any other way, like he only comprehends sexuality as tinged with anger. Still, he's skilled and knows exactly what he's doing and Ging tries, every single time, not to melt in his arms, not to throw his head back and gasp his name, and every single time he fails and puts his arms around Pariston's neck and lets him grab his thighs and fuck all the apathy out of him. 

After, he gets out of the tub to pee and then demands Pariston to carry him to the bedroom. 

"Today is a lazy day," he declares when he's carefully placed on the bed. He puts the blanket on top of himself and closes his eyes, pleased, when Pariston lays down next to him.

"Sounds nice."

"Lazy days are important."

They stay in silence for a moment while Ging idly traces a bruise on his thigh left by Pariston's obsessive hold.

"Why is it always so good with you?" Pariston asks, sounding almost pained.

Ging sighs and moves to put his head on the other's chest so he can take a nap. "If you ever find out, let me know."

 

-

 

When Ging wakes up from their nap, it's a little after 2pm and he is starving. He maneuvers out of their conjoined mess of blankets and pillows as gingerly as possible so he won't wake Pariston up, and gets dressed to try and be at least a little bit productive. The forgotten breakfast on the kitchen counter is cold and soggy now, so he throws that out and goes outside to get something for both of them in the small bakery just around the corner. 

It's still raining, a freezing, weak dribble of water. He doesn't bother with an umbrella; the feeling of raindrops running down his face and weighing down his hair on his nape makes him feel like a real person and not just a specter of an idea that was lost years ago.

When he gets back, he sits on top of the kitchen counter and eats in silence, and leaves the dirty dishes in the sink because he knows Pariston likes washing dishes to calm himself down when he’s stressed out. 

He grabs his computer and goes back to the bedroom - the two of them basically live there because it's the only room in the house where Ging actually feels comfortable in - and sits down on the bed to work out a few details about his expedition in planning. 

Pariston shifts in his sleep and moves unconsciously towards him. He's always searching for warmth, human warmth, in whatever way it may come, even if it hurts him in the end, even if it turns out to leave him colder than when he was alone. 

Ging, after a moment of confused internal debating, puts his head on his lap and lets him continue sleeping. 

It's one of the first times Ging has seen him sleep motionlessly, without tossing and turning and clenching his jaw and gritting his teeth. It's a peaceful sight - Ging threads his fingers through Pariston's golden, soft hair, and wipes his tears away with a careful thumb when he inevitably starts crying in his sleep because of his unnamed, disturbing, endless nightmares. 

Pariston wakes up some time later with a start and a gasp, like he usually does. Ging has paused the old game he was playing on his computer and is now vaguely thinking about the possibility of creating one himself, still caressing Pariston's blonde strands. 

"You're soft today." Pariston whispers, voice rough from sleep. 

Ging tsks and removes his hand to type something. 

"You're so fickle."

"Okay," Ging says, because he doesn't know how to answer to that, because he knows it's true. 

Pariston sits up on the bed with some difficulty and stretches. The muscles on his back shift under his skin. Ging doesn’t look. 

"I bought you something to eat from that bakery down the street."

"Oh?" Pariston's brown eyes shine a bit. "Thank you."

Ging continues typing. 

Pariston gets up from the bed and heads to the bathroom. When he comes back, his hands smell of soap and he plops down next to Ging again, peering into the computer screen. "What are you doing?"

"Plans."

"Another expedition?"

"Hmm. Not really. Ideas for a videogame I might make one day."

"Can I see?" 

"You can play it if it ever comes out."

Pariston lets out a pensive hum. "I'm not much of a gamer. I didn't usually play videogames as a kid."

"You do look like one of those book nerds." 

A shrug. "Pretty much." 

Ging is suddenly tired of this conversation, so he waves his hand dismissively. "Go eat something and amuse yourself without me for a while."

"Only if you find us dinner when we get hungry."

"Sure. Now, shoo."

Pariston gives him a lazy little salute. "Yes, sir." 

He does leave him be, but they end up spending the rest of the afternoon in the bedroom together, Pariston working his way through an enormous novel and Ging oscillating between planning his upcoming expedition, watching dumb videos, researching for interesting information on the Hunter website and throwing glances at the way his companion bites his lower lip when he's focused on what he's doing.

It's oddly domestic. Probably the most domestic situation Ging has found himself in since he left Whale Island. He has no idea how to react to that, so he just stays quiet and thinks about what he's gonna get for dinner.  

 

-

 

The next day, they go to the beach at sunrise. 

For the first time in months, Pariston doesn't feel devastatingly tired when he wakes up in the morning with Ging poking at his side. They shower, get dressed and lock the door on the way out. 

They stop for coffee. It's how Pariston learns Ging takes his coffee with very little sugar but lots of chocolate, and always buys a pack mint gum during road trips because sometimes he gets carsick. 

"You look energetic today," Ging comments. He's leaning against the door, knees held close to his chest. He looks younger, like a kid who got lost on his way back home. 

Pariston hums to the tune of the song playing on his stereo. Ging insisted on picking the playlist, because of course he did. It helps that their music taste is basically the same: everything goes, except for really shitty songs. 

"I like the beach. And I like driving."

Ging tsks, changes the song to an instrumental rock they both love very much. "I hate driving." 

"Why?"

"It stresses me out." his finger taps the rhythm of the song on the window glass. "I can't think of anything else while I'm driving and I hate not being able to think."

"I just like having something I can do automatically," Pariston says, straightening his back. "Although it has been a while since I last drove this much."

Ging's lips curl on a mean grin. "Is this your way of saying we might die?"

Pariston shrugs. "Maybe."

"Well, I wouldn't mind it terribly."

The road stretches out in front of them. Ging's eyes flutter closed, his mind a thousand miles away. 

Pariston thinks,  _ I might fall in love with him.  _ He tightens his hands around the wheel and steals a glance at Ging's face, his sharp jawline, his five-o'clock shadow, his full, arrogant lips.  _ Maybe I already have.  _

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he mumbles, eyes still shut. 

Pariston smiles, self-deprecating. "Like what?"

"Like you're in love with me."

"Don't flatter yourself, old man."

Ging scoffs and shifts in his seat to get more comfortable. "Fucking brat."

 

-

 

The ocean welcomes Ging like an old friend. As soon as the sand comes into view, he demands for Pariston to stop and let him out, and just like that he rushes off towards the sea, nimble feet barely touching the ground, soft hair rustled by the wind. 

Pariston catches himself staring at him for long moments. He's most beautiful like this, he figures. Free and quick on his feet and unattainable. 

It's also how he's cruelest. 

Pariston shifts gears and drives towards his house. He doesn't bother telling Ging how to find the place - he'll probably find out by himself. 

The rooms smell like salt and loneliness when he unlocks the door and gets inside. It reminds him of the many weeks he spent here, alone, trying to get some decent sleep, trying to give the ocean waves a chance of carrying his bad bad dreams far away from him, trying to figure out a way of attaching himself to this life. 

He sets up the bed in the biggest bedroom, the one with a large window that covers an entire wall and will allow them to sleep looking out at the sea, takes off his shirt, lays down and tries to rearrange everything inside his mind.

Bad, bad thoughts. He imagines the ocean dissolving them. His father is on the far corner of the living room, he feels, staring at him. He imagines drowning him and watching the life leave his body once more. 

When Ging comes home, droplets of seawater are falling from the tips of his hair, his eyes look bigger, darker than usual, and he turns off the light on his way in.

"Ging?"

Pariston feels the bed dip and then cool, humid fingers tiptoe their way down his shoulders, tracing the curve of his lower back. It sends a violent shiver through his entire body. 

"Ging, I -"

"Shh," a kiss is pressed to his nape. Cold, cold lips. "Let me, baby."

Pariston nods silently. He doesn't ask. He knows he'll say  _ yes _ to whatever Ging asks of him. 

Those lips travel down his spine, little drops of water falling on his skin and startling him now and then. The lube is also too cold to be entirely comfortable, but the jolt of pleasure that shoots through his nerves with the skilled experience of Ging's fingers is burning hot. He clutches the blankets and lets his head drop and arches his back for more  _ more please _

He doesn't say anything. Pariston is quiet in bed sometimes. Now is one of those times. His body sings an entire symphony instead. It begs Ging to take him, fuck him and remake him entirely into something better, something that shines on the sunlight. 

Ging is also silent for the most part. There's something dark and unspeakable about this, about having sex while the ocean lives on just outside the window, the wind knocking against the glass, the sand carrying the weight of their restless feet.

He turns Pariston on his back effortlessly and takes him deep down his throat, holding down his hips with one arm and fucking the rationality out of him with his fingers. It shuts down Pariston's thoughts, paints his feverish mind with a gorgeous white, leaves him gasping and whimpering and fisting Ging's hair to try and make this moment last just a bit longer, just a little more-

When he comes, Ging swallows it all nonchalantly and carefully removes his fingers. Pariston is struggling to remember how to function again. Ging rests his head on his thigh and traces unseen, invisible patterns on his belly.

"Better now?"

Pariston takes a deep breath. "Yeah, I - Yeah."

"Is he gone?"

Pariston stops to listen. The bad bad thoughts in his head. The interference on the waves of existence. "Kinda."

"Okay. Do you wanna swim, Paris?"

Another deep breath. "In a moment."

They stay like that a while longer, Ging's head propped up on his thigh, Pariston's fingers caressing his face as if trying to commit it to memory. 

 

-

 

"Do you think," Pariston asks after taking a sip of his wine, "we could be in a relationship if we were normal?"

Ging shrugs. "We would probably be engaged by now."

It's late. The ocean looks particularly beautiful in the middle of the night.

"If we were normal, I mean," he adds and allows Pariston to lean against his leg, sitting down the way he is on the floor, at Ging's feet. "If you weren't you and I wasn't myself."

Pariston wants to ask Ging if he loves him, but he's too much of a coward. 

 

-

 

“I don't love you.”

“I know.”

“You’re not enough for me.”

He wants to say:

And who is? Beautiful, long-haired Kite who would follow you to the ends of the world and who waits for you for months without any idea of when you might be coming back? He's young, Ging. He's young and in love like I used to be. He'll get tired of hunting something that always runs off in the end, that always leaves you alone in the morning. He'll get tired and he'll leave and then you'll come back to me like you do every single time and demand I fuck the loneliness out of you and we'll spend the night destroying each other until we get tired and realize just how bored and exhausted and lonely we both are. Until we realize it's just not worth it. Life is just not worth it. And then we’ll fuck again and I won't cry despite how badly I want to. And we'll get up the morning after and everything stays the same but at least the bed is warmer than when we are alone.

He says, “Let me-”

“No. I gave you eight months. I gave  _ us  _ eight months.”

Pariston lets out a psychotic, hurtful laugh. “It's impossible to fix either of us in such a short time.”

“It might be impossible to fix either of us at all.”

 

-

 

He wants to say: 

You're more special than it should be possible for any person to be. It’s unfair that you should be so extraordinary and so despicable at the same time. But then again, that's probably one of the reasons why you're like that and I'm like this. You're arrogant and fickle and inconstant and I miss you so much.

I miss you so much all the time I forget how awful you are.

You're awful and arrogant and proud and wicked, amoral at best and downright cruel at worst. You're honestly one of the worst people I've ever met. You're a terrible person and an unreliable friend, and yet - and yet, you're so much like me. You're the only person in the world who can make me feel like life isn't simply a boring, miserable trail down a deserted road filled with insomnia and nightmares and that only leads to death. 

It should be harder, falling in love with someone so easy to hate. 

 

-

 

He says: 

“Do you remember the beach?”

Ging glances away. It's hard to make Ging Freeccs glance away.

“I do.”

“Okay.”

“I won't forget it.”

“Okay.”

Ging grabs his bag, his old hat. 

“Don't forget me, Paris.”

Pariston wants to say: selfish, attention-seeking, arrogant prick.

He wants to say: never. Never. How could I?

He says:

“Make me remember.”

Ging's smirk then could split the sky in half.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> sad sad take this thing away from me please


End file.
